


The War Goes Ever On and On

by Drag0nst0rm



Series: All According to Plan [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, First Age, Gen, Halls of Mandos, No one wants to be king, Second Age, Third Age, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Dealing with the aftermath of the First Age is almost as hard as surviving it in the first place.(Fingon's point of view from "What You Thought You Wanted.")





	The War Goes Ever On and On

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.

“I lied, you realize.”

Fingon can’t say this surprises him. Morgoth lying is like the rising of the sun: once unimaginable and now as regular as the clockwork Uncle Feanor had experimented with.

The question then, is what Morgoth has lied about, and Fingon doesn’t like his options. The last thing Morgoth had told him before leaving him to the mercy of the elements out here on the cliff was that he would be back soon, which had been proven to be true, and that he might bring some food.

Fingon desperately hopes he wasn’t lying about the food. It’s not unlikely - it wouldn’t be the first time - but he’s lost count of the number of times the sun has risen and fallen since he last was permitted to eat, and the gnawing in his stomach has begun to echo the endless hunger of the Void. There’s not a bone he can’t count when he looks down, and he’s sure that if he could die, he would have done so already.

It’s been made very obvious to him that death is a release he will not be granted. Either Morgoth’s will or the strange protection that had brought some of his people through but failed his father will not allow him to die.

Morgoth is still looking at him like he’s waiting for a response. Fingon briefly considers asking if he’d been expecting a shocked gasp and a swoon, but he’s learned it’s best to keep his wit, such of it that remains, to himself.

“About what?” he asks instead. His voice is hoarse, and it cracks in the middle. He’s had water more recently than he’s had food, but it still hasn’t been recently enough.

“About how the Feanorian side of your family died.”

Fingon can’t help himself. He snorts.

That is, quite obviously, not the reaction Morgoth was expecting. The flicker of incredulity is almost worth the rage that follows immediately after it. Fingon can’t help flinching back into the rock.

“I assumed that,” he says because the explanation might calm Morgoth down, and if it doesn’t, his incredulity might be almost worth whatever comes after it.

Really, though, what did Morgoth expect? He’d done an excellent job making the deaths horrifying enough to haunt Fingon’s now crowded nightmares, but he had failed to give his cousins enough credit to make it fully believable.

No matter what might have come between them, Fingon knows his cousins, and he now has a pretty good idea of Morgoth’s strength as well. He knows they would have made a better fight of it than Morgoth painted.

It’s only then - and he blames pain and deprivation for it taking this long - that he begins to wonder why Morgoth brought it up in the first place. Morgoth’s lies have, at the very least, been consistent; why change them now?

Dread follows soon after. He has long suspected, or maybe hoped is the better word, that at least some of them might have survived. If that’s true, then Morgoth certainly has no reason to tell him.

Unless he’s caught one of them, or killed them in a way even more horrific than the lie.

The blood drains from his face. “What’s happened? What have you done?”

Morgoth smiles at him, and it’s a hundred times more terrifying than anything else he’s done today. “What can you tell me of your cousin Maedhros?”

No. Not Maedhros. Not the cousin that had practically been an older brother to him. Not Maedhros, who had tried so hard to keep the peace.

And _what can you tell me_ \- Not dead, not yet, but here, then, surely, and Fingon can barely imagine what horrors Morgoth will inflict on them together -

He realizes that he is thrashing furiously in his chains, and forces himself to stop before the futile action can rub his skin more raw than it already is.

“Nothing,” he snarls with more defiance than he’s dared in a long time. He cannot save Maedhros now, but he will not be party to his destruction.

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

That’s when Morgoth beckons one his servants to come closer, and the smell hits Fingon.

Bread. Fresh, hot bread. Not foul meat that he doesn’t dare to touch, not thin gruel that couldn’t feed a mouse, but bread. Proper bread. His mouth floods with saliva he didn’t know he still had the water to make.

“Surely you can answer at least a few questions about your one-time friend,” Morgoth says, still smiling.

Fingon closes his eyes and wishes he could plug his nose. “No,” he whispers.

No, he cannot. No, he must not.

No, he will not.

For his part, at least, they are still friends.

He clings to that, even as Morgoth’s questions draw on, ranging from the dangerous to the seemingly irrelevant. Fingon refuses to answer any of them, not daring to try to discern what is truly harmless in his condition.

Morgoth’s methods of persuasion grow increasingly less pleasant.

“Loyal to the end,” Morgoth says, amused. “But, then, I already knew _you_ were. The question is, is he?”

And then Morgoth brings to bear … Not the full force of his will, but enough. Fingon’s shields shudder before it and fall.

He screams, he thinks. He can’t remember doing it, exactly, but his throat is raw and useless afterwards, and the shrill, wailing sound of it reverberates through his mind.

Morgoth picks his way through his mind, examining his memories of Maedhros, and laughing at some private source of amusement Fingon doesn’t dare to guess.

All his will is useless against it, and the pain is worse than anything that’s been done to him yet.

He has begged before, but always it has been to some purpose. To spare Orodreth or one of his people, to gain enough sustenance or reprieve to keep up his strength to resist, always for something there was at least a small chance might be granted.

Now, he can do nothing but think desperately, _please no, please stop, don’t hurt him, please, please, please -_

Eventually, it ends. By that point, the last of his water has been wasted in involuntary tears, and his throat is impossibly raw. He gasps desperately for breath and shakes against the stone.

The images Morgoth has left in his mind linger. Maedhros, coming to find him, lured in by every trick Morgoth has pulled from his head. Maedhros, chained across from him and made to scream -

He has no more tears to shed, but his every breath is a shaking sob.

“There, there,” Morgoth says. His form is smaller than it sometimes is today, and he runs a hand through Fingon’s hair. Fingon flinches away from the touch. “You did well. I believe I promised you a reward, didn’t I?”

No. No, the reward had been for betraying his cousin, and he hasn’t done that, he hasn’t, it wasn’t his choice -

But the water is ladled gently into his mouth as if Morgoth is pleased with him and not just thrown at him to give him enough strength to talk.

“You didn’t resist all that long, really, and certainly not very hard,” Morgoth says gently. Pleased. “I do believe you’re learning at last.”

Fingon shudders. He gave it his best, he had tried, hadn’t he? He didn’t give in. Not like Morgoth claims.

Had he?

And then he’s given the bread, the wonderful, wonderful bread, and it hurts his throat as it goes down and settles uneasily into his stomach.

“You’ll have company again soon, little one,” Morgoth promises, and then he’s gone.

The bread, the wonderfully rich bread unlike anything he’s eaten in months at the least, refuses to stay down.

Fingon closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at the results and prays desperately that Morgoth has once again lied.

 

When Maedhros shows up, Fingon tries to shout at him to run, but his throat is so parched that all that comes out is a croak.

He is not that far up on the cliff, just high enough that his feet can’t touch the earth, the bare inch of distance a taunt, so Maedhros is able to pour water into his mouth easily enough.

“Easy,” he says, eyes dark with concern. “Not too fast.”

But it has to be fast if Maedhros is to have a chance.

“Trap,” he gasps out as soon as he can, “it’s a trap.”

Maedhros gives him a rueful half-grin. “Obviously it’s a trap. They wouldn’t have put you so close to the front line if it weren’t. I don’t suppose you know any details?”

Fingon is forced to shake his head.

“Then I’ll just have to be fast,” Maedhros concludes. He starts examining the chains holding up his arms.

“There’s no lock,” Fingon says dully. “It’s driven straight into the rock.” Maedhros could just cut his hands off, he supposes, but he doesn’t really fancy the idea.

“Of course it is,” Maedhros says in disgust, and he draws a knife.

Fingon flinches back. “Maybe if you just took the thumbs … ?” he tries. He can keep quiet through that, he thinks. And there’s no time to wish for better, not if Maedhros is to get away.

He doesn’t think of getting away himself yet. He can’t afford that hope.

“The only thing I’ll be cutting is metal,” his cousin assures him, and much to his astonishment, that’s exactly what Maedhros does.

“It’s something new we’ve been working on,” Maedhros explains. “Well, I say we. Father and Curufin, mainly.”

“They’re alive?” He hadn’t been sure how far Morgoth’s lies extended.

“They’re alive,” Maedhros promises him as he saws through the chains. A shadow passes over his face, but he fights it back. “Most of us are.”

Fingon wants to ask who isn’t, but then he’s dropping down onto the path and Maedhros’s steadying arms and doesn’t dare.

“Alright,” Maedhros says with forced cheer. “Now to get you out of - ”

That’s when the ambush strikes.

Fingon tells the whole story of what happened after that once and only once.

It shows up most nights in his dreams.

 

He wakes up to find Aredhel asleep in a chair beside his bed, and he could weep to see her here and safe.

“You’re awake,” a weary voice says from the other side of his bed, and he turns to see Maglor with deeper shadows under his eyes than Fingon’s ever seen before.

“Where’s Maedhros?” he asks, and then he remembers.

Maglor must see the fall in his face, because he just nods. “The eagle told us,” he says.

Fingon swallows. “I’m so sorry.”

“Father - Father didn’t take it well.”

Fingon can’t imagine any world where Feanor would have. No one has ever accused Feanor of being unfeeling, and it’s well known that he grieves deeply.

“He rode out against Morgoth.”

Fingon’s breath catches, and he waits to hear just how terrible the news is.

“He’s dead.”

Fingon swallows again. “I’m sorry.”

Maglor pulls himself together and shakes his head. “You’re recovering,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Fingon feels better than he should, presumably because he’s been in a healing sleep for some time. His eyes flick up to the circlet on Maglor’s brow for the first time. “It’s all right,” he says. “My king.”

Maglor flinches. “Call me that again, and I’ll stop keeping my brothers from bursting in here to yell at you,” he says levelly.

The circlet is light and elegant, the polar opposite of the iron monstrosity that Morgoth wears even as it burns him, but the pain, it seems, is just as much. Fingon imagines wearing that weight, and remembering everyone who’d born it before him.

“Fair enough,” he says, and that wears him out enough that he drifts back to sleep.

 

The war against Morgoth is blow after blow, but nothing comes quite so close to breaking him as what happens afterward, when they’re supposed to be safe, and instead they get word that Eregion is on the brink of falling, and Celembrimbor is afraid of what he will tell Sauron if put to torment, so will his uncle take this, please?

Maglor lifts out the pretty little ring, examines it for a long moment, and then hurls it against the nearest pillar.

It bounces off unharmed.

“We have to do something,” Fingon says. He needs to be moving, acting, helping, doing anything but standing here and imagining little Tyelpe in his place on that cliff.

Not so little anymore, admittedly, but still.

“Gil-Galad and Elrond are closer,” Caranthir says, ever practical. “Assuming they got a message too, they’re probably already on their way.” Despite this, his lips are tight, and his knuckles are white around his sword.

“We ride to war,” Maglor orders hoarsely.

Fingon is relieved.

Right up until he sees that terrible banner.

He should have known this was coming, he should have recognized Sauron, he should have - He should have -

Something. Anything to stop this.

He rides to war. They take no prisoners.

 

Sauron is gone, for now, but no matter how they look, they can’t find his Ring of Power, which means sooner or later he’ll return.

In the meantime, they have other problems, like the increasingly tricky situation with Numenor.

Which Fingon prefers to think about rather than thinking about his other problem. Namely, Maglor and Caranthir.

Or, rather, how they’ve lost Maglor in the war, and as deep as that grief is cutting all of them, Fingon very much included, it’s nothing to how it’s hitting Caranthir.

“The last of my line,” he says bitterly. “Who would have thought?”

“It’s not forever,” Fingon tries to say.

“Little pity, Mandos promised,” Caranthir says. “And considering that’s his normal state of affairs, I can’t imagine that what he considers small will amount to anything at all.”

Fingon looks around helplessly at the rest of what remains of their family. Galadriel and Maglor were never on the best of terms, since he thought so little of the power she so wanted, but even she seems in a state of shock that their rivalry is at an end. Celebrian is clinging tightly to her mother as if wondering if this pillar of her world will disappear too. Elrond has gone blank in a frankly concerning way.

Fingon knows he should be doing something, but all his mind is coming up with is how in Arda he’s going to explain to Maedhros what he let happen to his baby brother.

He was supposed to protect them. That was the deal he made with himself when he couldn’t save Maedhros. He would keep all the rest of them safe like Maedhros would himself.

_Well done, Fingon. Excellent job._

Gil-Galad is pale, and his eyes are red, but he’s dealing with the practicalities better than the rest of them. “You have the ring already,” he says. “We’ll - We’ll need a new crown, I suppose,” and here his voice shakes a little, “but I’m sure we can find something for the ceremony - ”

“I’m not going to be king,” Caranthir says. His tone is final.

They spend the next hour trying to talk him out of it anyway, but in the end Fingon is forced to concede. It’s . .  . probably for the best, really.

That’s when he realizes everyone is now looking at him.

 

They lose Gil-Galad to the Nazgul in one of their resurgences.

Which means that when Fingon falls in the War of the Ring, his last thought is that it looks like Caranthir is going to have to be king after all.

 

Mandos’s Halls are a great deal more bustling than he was expecting.

Then again, they’ve certainly been sending in a good many dead of late.

There’s so many people he wants to see - his father, his brothers, his niece, his cousins, and that’s just family and not even starting in on everyone else - but suddenly the prospect of trying to find anyone at all is rather daunting. Still, it looks like he’s going to be here for quite some time, so he might as well try.

He sets out through the twisting halls. The walls show scenes from Arda’s history, and he wonders if trying to find some specific moment would be helpful or just an exercise in futility.

“Fingon!” a cheerful voice calls out from behind him, and suddenly he is being pulled into a comfortingly tight hug.

It’s been more years than he cares to count, but he knows that voice despite how his nightmares have drawn it out into cries of pain.

“Maedhros,” he says, voice a little choked. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Maedhros laughs. “For what? Getting yourself killed? I hardly think I’m in any condition to complain, you beat my streak very nicely.” Maedhros lets him go, and Fingon finally gets a good look at him. He looks well and whole and nothing at all like the last glimpse Fingon got of him.

Maedhros interrupts his thoughts before they can get too maudlin. “Come on. The rest of the family will want to see you. We tried to form a welcoming committee, but you moved too fast. Everyone’s - well, not pleased, but eager to see you.”

“Everyone?” Fingon asks somewhat skeptically. Curufin had never quite forgiven him, to pick one example.

“Everyone,” Maedhros says firmly. “ … Although admittedly for some of them it might be partially motivated by only having to wait for two more now.”

Assuming they’re counting so-called leaders of the rebellion and not family members, that would be Caranthir and Galadriel, but - “Waiting?”

“Well, we have to wait until everyone that was banned is safely in Aman or safely here before we start the plan,” Maedhros says reasonably.

“Plan?” Fingon echoes, although he has a suspicion forming.

“You didn’t really think we’d be in here for this long and not have a breakout plan, did you?”

It feels like boyhood in Aman all over again, conspiring with his cousins to get into mischief. Some of the years start to fall away, and he can’t help but laugh. And even, for the first time, make a joke he never thought he’d dream of. “Let’s hope it turns it out better than your last one.”


End file.
